


His Religion is Beauty

by microwaveslayer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bad Flirting, F/M, Post-Coital Cuddling, Trans Female Character, innuendos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/microwaveslayer/pseuds/microwaveslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis didn't expect her to start crying and he had to wonder what he had done to hurt her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Religion is Beauty

For a long moment, they lay apart and nestled in soft sheets, smelling of sweat and lovemaking. Then, he turned to take in her strong jawline, her hair just so mussed and lovely. He turned and pulled her to his chest, spooning her.  
“Don't,” she begged, turning her face away from him.  
“But why, my dear Cecilia?” he asked her.  
She caught her breath and then it hitched. She sniffled and Francis let go, sitting up and looking down at her.  
Cecilia—the embodiment of all things Austrian and with Vienna as her heart—curled herself up and let herself sob. Francis tried to unwind her, pulling her close to him.  
“You're just so damn graceful,” she managed, manicured fingers tracing his chest. “You're graceful and it's not fair!”   
“It's taken me years to be as graceful as I am, dear,” he murmured, running his fingers through her hair.  
Cecilia sighed, still not looking up at him. “It's not fair. You have hips that work with your skirts and no one ever bothers you.”  
“The trick is to master The Stare,” he told her, patting her back gently.  
“The Stare?” she asked, looking up at him.  
“The Stare is when you manage to look angry enough to kill a man, but also seductive enough to blow him under a table,” Francis explained.  
“That's disgusting,” she told him. “I'm certain there's laws against talking like that in front of a lady.”  
“Why would they lock up a person speaking the truth?” he asked her.  
Cecilia sighed, her small breasts pressed against him. “You're the worst person I've ever met.”  
“Ah, but you keep coming back.”  
“Well, yes,” she told him, rolling over and sitting up to get into Francis' emergency post-coital cigarettes.  
He tilted his head as she smoked. Francis admired the angle of her back, the jut of her narrow hipbones, the curve of her breasts. She blinked, exhaling and staring at him.  
“You're lovely,” he told her finally.  
“Well, thank you,” she told him. “But I'm a work in progress.”  
“And a work you'll be,” he told her.  
She rolled her eyes and continued to smoke.  
“You'll get cancer,” he warned her half-heartedly, relaxing against the pillows, arms folded behind his head.  
“Then you shouldn't offer French hospitality to everyone you sleep with,” she replied. “And it's not as if people like us can die like that.”  
Francis nodded, “But we can suffer.”  
“Like you've ever suffered,” she scoffed.  
“No like you have,” he agreed. “I'm proud of you.”  
“Oh please,” she begged him, snubbing out the remains of her cigarette. “Don't get sentimental with me, dear. I'd rather like a nap now.”  
“Lust for man and cigarettes sated?” he teased.  
Cecilia nodded, resting her head on his chest. Francis lowered one hand, rubbing her back and gently scratching between her shoulders.  
“I'm not a cat,” she told him, eyes closed.  
“No, but you purr when I do this.”  
She sighed and, true to his word, began to softly purr. “A little to the left, then.”  
Francis adjusted his scratching, earning a louder purr of approval from her.  
“Do you see yourself settling down?” Cecilia asked softly.  
“Do you?”  
“Hardly,” she told him. “Perhaps, like Sappho, I can find a man named Dick Allcocks from Man Island.”  
“A wise choice of husband,” Francis snickered.  
Cecilia told him, “No women will want me and the only men that do are men of science.”  
“What horrible scientists to not repeat their experiments,” he sighed.  
“You try to be suave, but now I'm starting to regret snuggling up to you.”  
“The door's unlocked,” he pointed out.  
She seemed to consider this before she argued, “I'm warm and comfortable.”  
“Then rest, dear,” Francis told her, pulling the blankets over them. “Rest and I'll make you breakfast.”  
“It's almost as if you don't consider this a one-time itch-scratching,” Cecilia teased, closing her eyes.  
Francis smiled and kissed her forehead. “My itches are never scratched quite right.”


End file.
